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  One

  Last Prayer

  for the

  Rays

  A DCI Michael Yorke Thriller by

  Wes Markin

  This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, alive or dead, events or locals is almost entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 Wes Markin

  First published 2019

  ISBN: 9781795399661

  Imprint: Independently published

  Edited by Eve Seymour

  Cover design by Ian Morrison

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book should be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author.

  For Jo

  Prologue

  THOMAS RAY SCRAPED a chunk of sleep from the corner of his eye, uncurled and flattened his back against the arrow-shaped spindles of his rocking chair, yawned, and scooped his sawn-off shotgun from the floor.

  Outside, it sounded like the thunder was going to split the sky in two. He smiled. It was time. The bastards were here.

  He freed one hand from his shotgun to scratch at his beard. Dead skin rained down on his lap. He tugged at his sweat-stained shirt, ungluing it from his skin. A bath was long overdue.

  Lightning licked the sky; his hand darted back to his shotgun.

  The rain began; now just a slow tap-dance on his roof, it would quickly worsen. His father always told him nature would retaliate when they came again. He’d also told him what to expect. Horrible twisted faces coming at you like ghouls.

  There was the creak of old wood from somewhere deep inside his house. His eyes darted left. He waited for a repeat of the sound, but it didn’t come.

  With his finger solid against the trigger, he moved his eyes back to the front door. He smiled again. He’d waited his whole miserable life for this moment.

  ****

  All in all, local district nurse Danielle Butler’s journey had been unpleasant. Not only had the dark clouds above her swelled to bursting point, but her old mini had whined since she’d set off from Salisbury.

  There was no improvement in the weather when she reached The Downs. Around her, bony fingers of mist clawed at the sprawling fields.

  Ignoring her vehicle’s complaints over several sharp corners, she took a quick look at her watch. She still had plenty of time until she met her husband Harry for the IVF appointment, but this didn’t stop her checking every five minutes. The mere thought of turning up late and losing that appointment after waiting for so long, caused her mouth to go dry.

  The distance between each clap of thunder grew shorter, and as she reached Little Horton, the rain came. She cleared her window with her wipers and saw the yellowing sign for Pig Lane. She thought of Harry’s words at their front door earlier this morning. ‘I don’t like it when you have to go there.’

  ‘He’s odd, but he’s harmless,’ she’d said. ‘You coppers are always so paranoid.’

  The gravelly road crunched under her wheels as she drove up the entry road into the pig farm. The sky continued to squeal like the condemned swine which had once lived here.

  ****

  Whenever anyone had asked Thomas Ray about his reclusive life, he’d always told them he wasn’t good with people. He’d never told them the truth. Never told them he was preparing for war.

  He looked down at his small armoury. A handgun, a set of knives, pepper spray, a taser and a hand grenade from the Battle of the Bulge which his Uncle John had given him on his sixth birthday, four years after the actual battle; there had been a nail in it to stop him pulling the pin, but that was gone now. He smiled. If they got to him, he’d blow all of them, himself included, to kingdom come.

  Rain battered his roof and the sky made a grotesque noise. It reminded Thomas of the bucket beside his chair that was a quarter full of his own crap. It must have been three days since he’d last emptied it onto the porch, but it would be dangerous to attempt to do it right now. The stench didn’t bother him, he’d been a pig farmer most of his life. Next to the bucket were some bottles of mineral water and several cans of baked beans, most of which were empty. He felt hungry and wondered if he should eat to raise his energy levels. Best not. Again, too risky. They could be here at any moment.

  He reached into the top pocket of his shirt and pulled out a dog-eared black and white photograph of his family around the pig-pen outside when he was only two years old. Nineteen forty-four. Hard to believe there had been eight of them back then. His two cousins held his excited younger self in the air by his feet. He ran his fingers over his father’s face and remembered his warning. ‘Beware the aliens, son. Their fiddly tests have given me cancer. Don’t let this happen to you.’

  He put the photo of his family back into his pocket.

  February, nineteen fifty-two. The vermin had come for his father. Performed their tests.

  Near the end, his father, in and out of delirious consciousness, had said, ‘It’s through this same door in fifty years, they will come back for you, they told me so. And remember, those creatures can come in human or animal form.’

  Fifty years later, two weeks into February, Thomas was ready; he’d been waiting for them at his front door for the past two weeks.

  Whatever happens, they will never be able to say they caught me by surprise.

  ****

  What if they say no? What if they tell us that we can never have children?

  Concern pounded Danielle as incessantly as the rain thrashed the roof of her Mini. She stopped the car, and wiped some tears away; she checked her eyes in the rear view mirror and saw that they were still puffy from crying the night before.

  You need to get control of yourself, Danielle, there will be no problem with having the IVF. And if it doesn’t work, well you do what Sandra did, and you try again.

  Taking a deep breath, she restarted the car and approached the farmhouse, which she struggled to see past her racing windscreen wipers.

  Once she’d parked, she reached for her umbrella, and stepped outside, surveying the rotten pens, dishevelled sheds and the decimated farmhouse with boarded over windows. After three generations, the legacy of the Ray family was crumbling.

  After evading the threatening mud which spilled out from the cracks in the tiles, she walked the pathway to the farmhouse, noticing along the way a peculiar odour. When she reached the steps to the wooden porch, the smell worsened to a rancid stench, and she looked back at her car, wondering if she should turn back. In the rain, her vehicle was a blur. Knowing, deep down, that retreat wasn’t an option, that she had a duty of care to Thomas Ray, she stared at the car a moment longer before covering her mouth and turning back to take the two steps up to the porch.

  Splattered on Thomas’ doorstep was a pile of excrement which seemed to be pulsating. She tightened the grip on her mouth. I don’t get paid enough for this.

  By leaning in, she saw that the pulsations were caused by a thin layer of flies. Has the waste been left by some kind of animal?

  Doubtful ...

  Thomas Ray? On his own doorstep? Or someone else perhaps – one of the many people he’d upset in his time?

  She sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was manoeuvre around it to get to the front door, but what choice did she have?

  After she drew down the umbrella, she climbed onto the porch. She skirted around most of the excrement, but the side
of her right shoe made contact and the flies erupted into the air. Retching, she crossed the final metre to the door.

  She knocked with venom. The old wood trembled on its frame.

  There was no answer.

  She tried again; fighting back the urge to look down at what she was standing in. ‘Come on ...’

  A third knock. Still nothing. Fighting repulsion, she squatted and the stench intensified. She pushed open a brass letter box and looked inside. It was dark, difficult to see anything, but when she squinted, she was certain that she caught a flicker of movement.

  ‘Mr Ray?’

  Silence. ‘Mr Ray, it’s Danielle Butler, local district nurse.’

  She turned her ear to the open letter box, but struggled to hear anything over the rain. Raising her voice this time, she said, ‘You haven’t phoned in for over two weeks.’

  Silly old man - are you alive in there?

  ‘I will have to contact the police, Mr Ray.’

  Still no reply. ‘Okay, police it―’

  Someone just behind the door coughed. She bolted back up and released the letter box with a bang. Her heartbeat quickened. Spinning around, she stared again at her car shimmering through the downpour. Something felt very wrong and the temptation to leave was great. But ethical obligations niggled at her again. What if he’s down on the floor after a fall; or, worse still, a heart attack?

  Her temples throbbed. Feeling as alone as the final pig in line for slaughter, she turned to face the door again. ‘Shit.’

  She pressed the chrome handle down and pushed. To her surprise it was unlocked and she gulped when it began to glide open.

  ****

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  Thomas flinched. Jesus, they’re coming in with a sledgehammer! Sweat ran into his eyes.

  Get control of yourself. His finger tightened over the trigger. They’ll die before they reach you.

  He took one hand off the shotgun to press his sleeve against his wet forehead, his eczema stung, but at least it stopped the sweat.

  There was another knock, even louder this time.

  A knot formed in his stomach. With trembling hands, he raised the shotgun.

  Bastards! You think you can make a fool out of me? Like I’m just going to get up and let you in?

  Following yet another deafening series of thumps, the letter box opened and Thomas held his breath. They’re looking right in! Can they see me? Surely not, it’s too dark.

  With the gun pointed at the thing’s eyes, he thought, how easy it would be ... Despite having the upper hand, he needed to control his excitement. Steady your hands, Thomas, not yet. You need a good clean shot. If the door takes most of the buckshot, the thing might carry on living.

  ‘Mr Ray?’

  The voice is female ... familiar.

  ‘Mr Ray. It’s Danielle Butler, local district nurse.’

  The polite lady from Salisbury?

  His father’s voice squealed somewhere inside his brain. ‘Those creatures can come in human or animal form.’

  ‘You haven’t called in for over two weeks.’

  But it sounds just like her. Surely they can’t mimic someone that precisely?

  Lowering the weapon, he saw his father staring at him from his death bed, shaking his head; nerves in Thomas’ left eyelid started to twitch.

  Don’t be weak.

  He lifted the shotgun back up again.

  ‘I will have to contact the police, Mr Ray ... okay, police it―’

  His chest tightened and he coughed. The letterbox closed with a bang.

  Now, they will know I’m here. Come on you bastards.

  Nerves in his right eyelid had started to twitch too. Watching the door, he fought back another cough, despite the growing tightness in his chest. The handle went down and he felt his trigger finger go numb. He looked down at it. Don’t fail me now, not after all this time.

  The door opened.

  God almighty ... it looks just like her!

  Inside, a small part of him screamed out that he should stop, that nothing in existence could possibly mimic another being so perfectly. He almost said hello, almost apologised for his behaviour. Almost.

  Somewhere in his memory, he heard his father tutting.

  This is for you, father.

  His trigger finger didn’t fail him.

  1

  SIMON RUSHTON WIPED the sweat from his brow as he ran. You idiot, he thought. His face would now be streaked with blood.

  He stopped at the library reception desk. The librarian, Paula Moorhouse, looked up.

  ‘Get the police,’ he said. ‘Now!’

  She started to edge the wheeled chair away from the desk, the colour draining from her face. Several fourteen-year olds stared at him from a table in the library. They disliked him at the best of times. Never usually gave him a second look, but now their stares were unflinching.

  ‘Why?’ Paula said, continuing the roll away. After stopping dead by the door of the storage room, her eyes darted left to right.

  ‘In the boys’ toilets … it’s disgusting. Phone the police,’ he said, turning to continue his sprint back to the classroom, thinking, Paul might have returned to my room, he could be safe, the blood just some peculiar hoax.

  He flew down the corridor, past framed maths formulae; his fifty-five year old legs had not been pushed this hard since his days as an army officer. He ran through the burn, avoiding the whitewashed concrete walls, not wanting to spread the blood. Students of all ages watched him through the large classroom windows; many of their mouths falling open.

  He burst through his classroom door. The heads of thirty eleven-year olds turned simultaneously. There was a collective gasp, whilst outside the clouds moved and the room suddenly dimmed.

  ‘Has Paul come back?’ he said, stepping into the room.

  The children rose to their feet, their eyes widening.

  His eyes darted from face to face. No sign of Paul.

  ‘Shit.’

  He looked down and noticed he had smeared blood onto his shirt.

  Raising his eyes, he saw Jessica Hart, his teaching assistant, take a step forward as the children scurried back.

  ‘You’ve got blood all over you,’ she said.

  He stared down at his stained palms and clenched them into fists.

  ‘Year Seven, stay where you are,’ Jessica said.

  But it was too late. The children were moving fast. A table was knocked over, exposing dried chewing gum which resembled grey matter.

  ‘Paul’s gone,’ Rushton said. ‘In the toilets ... there’s blood everywhere.’

  ‘What do you mean, everywhere?’ Jessica said.

  He could see her lips trembling.

  ‘What do you think I mean? It’s everywhere ... fucking everywhere!’

  Most of the students were pinned against the windows shadowed by Salisbury Cathedral; its jagged, black finger stroking the ever-darkening sky. Other children were jammed underneath a range of posters explaining prime numbers, Pi and other mathematical enigmas.

  He unclenched his hands; they looked like two poppies blooming. Jessica gasped and his students started to cry.

  ****

  Michael Yorke stepped in from the cold and pounded crusts of snow from each of his brogues. Then, he reached into his pocket for a tissue, spat out his gum and fed it to a large silver bin beside the door.

  The missing boy is a Ray, he thought, surveying the Salisbury Cathedral School reception area, expect the phone calls from Harry to begin at any moment.

  Tiny speakers hummed Christmas carols from the corners of the room. In front of him, a real six foot Christmas tree, ruined with shoddy decorations, shed needles onto a pile of presents. He thought of the mountain of gifts he had to wrap back home. He had a feeling that was about to move even further down his list of priorities.

  Paul Ray, he thought, missing the gum already. Danielle’s killer Thomas Ray is a distant relative; is this more than just a coinciden
ce?

  An elderly woman was sitting behind the reception desk. She still hadn’t looked up at him.

  ‘DCI Michael Yorke, I’m here to meet with PC Tyler,’ he said, strolling forward. The woman lifted her head, revealing a flash of silver hair pinned back with a yellow flower. She nodded, dabbed at her bloodshot eyes with a handkerchief, picked up the phone and mumbled something into it from the side of her mouth.

  Less than a minute later, a muscular woman burst through the door to the left of him. Her black suit was tailored. It reminded Yorke of how baggy his own suit was; two sizes too big after the weight had fallen off him during his last bout of marathon training. She thrust out her hand. ‘Laura Baines, Head Teacher.’

  He shook her hand; her grip was tight. ‘DCI Yorke. I’d appreciate it if you can take me directly to my officer at the crime scene Ms Baines. Then, I will need you to take me to the man who found the blood.’ He flicked through his notebook. ‘Simon Rushton?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in his classroom with one of your officers and Jessica Hart, a support teacher.’

  ‘No-one has left?’

  ‘No-one. Teachers are in their rooms with their students. I have not heard of anyone having seen anything yet ...’

  ‘We’ll get to that soon; first, let’s get to the bathroom and on the way, can you run me through everything?’

  Yorke followed Baines out of the festive reception. She walked with a straight back with her dagger-like nose raised high. Keeping up with her, he felt a painful twinge in his knees; a not-so gentle reminder that he should have replaced his running shoes after the Paris Marathon.

  The school was an archaic stone structure, a perfect match for its attached cathedral and huge walled gates; inside, however, it was a complete contrast: white, modern and bursting at the seams with technology.

  Baines led him down a long corridor with classrooms spilling off at either side. The rooms were full of children and staff speaking in hushed voices. To see a school so quiet was eerie. The squelching of his wet shoes grew louder as the Christmas music faded behind them. He glanced at his scratched watch. Eleven fifty-five AM.